Memoirs of a Phat Chick~ The funny, heartbreaking, honest musings of a dented writer...

Memoirs of a Phat Chick

Bras and Other Weapons of Mass Destruction

I would have seen it coming if I hadn’t
been so preoccupied by the voicemail Monsignor Spit-vac had left. I heard him
leave it. It wasn’t his first call to Fran. In fact, it may not have been his
first call that week. I could have easily erased it but why bother. I couldn’t
get in more trouble than I was already in. I was grounded from all of my
activities, even the lame ones. Any belongings that mattered to me were
confiscated. Even worse, I was a
daily line item on the old ladies prayer list. No one envied that. Nothing was
worse than knowing all the old ladies were praying for you to be someone you
were sure you could never be. It took an act of congress or the second coming
of Christ Himself to get off that list.

I wasn’t allowed to go anywhere
besides Edward’s house, which was fine by me. None of that other stuff mattered
if I could escape my own house. I could have been rehabilitated from all of my
behavioral issues with relative ease if my parents could have tolerated my
company for longer than an hour. A lucky break for me, depending on how you
define luck, I guess.

“Beep. This is
Monsignor Spevak. I’m sure you know why I’m calling. Erin is just not adjusting
to Catholic life. I doubt she possesses the intellect. Sister says she seems
impervious to Christian doctrine, a well-documented indicator of demonic
possession and something that should cause you grave concern. Regardless of how
amusing your daughter finds our faith to be, this is no laughing matter. Sister
says Erin is intentionally trying to drive her insane and that the only friend
she’s made is a seventy-eight year old Jesuit. I don’t know what is wrong with
her but…beep.”

Cut
the windbag off, mid-bitch. He was right. I was trying to drive Sister crazy,
even if she was already well on her way. I had extraordinary, nearly telepathic,
button pushing skills, especially with the Catholics. And, so what, if I did
have a 78 year-old Jesuit friend? It was one more friend than old Spit-vac ever
had. Whatever. I knew Fran wouldn’t call him back. He already knew what was
wrong with me. Most likely, something similar to what was wrong with him. It
could be some sort of demonic possession. I’m no expert, although I didn’t
think a fat girl would be a likely candidate. Seemed like overkill if you ask
me. I thought being fat was about as bad as it could get. That was how the nuns
had explained it. Sloth. Envy. Pride. Greed. Vanity. Wrath. Gluttony. I figured
I was covered. I couldn’t spin my head around. That I knew. I tried it the
second I saw Linda Blair do it in the Exorcist.

Days
passed and no one mentioned the voice mail. Just as my false sense of security began
to settle in, my brother burst into my room.

“I think you’re in trouble,
again.”

I
don’t know why he always felt the need to add “again.”

We
assumed our usual positions next to the heating vent just as the grandmother was
telling Fran that something was “overdue” and “settled” for Saturday. Maybe
they were going to have me exorcized after all, as a precautionary measure. It
may be terrible to admit but my heart leapt, for a second, in that rift that
exists between hope and reality. I was ready for a change, just not the kind I
got.

I
wondered if it would be painful, the exorcism, like having a tooth pulled or
getting hit with a line drive. They could check my head for sixes if they wanted.
I didn’t see any when I looked. Peanut said they would dump me in water to see
if I could float. He said that was how they tested witches. Floaters were
doomed. He figured it had to be the same kind of criteria and suggested I
prepare for the worst. He said his grandmother always said I was “full of the
devil.”

I
was relieved when Saturday finally arrived. I had lost sleep thinking of all
the ways I could be exorcised. It didn’t help that Peanut added new potential
tortures hourly.

“They’ll make you drink holy water to see if you explode.
Maybe put bamboo under your fingernails, or poke you in the eyes with needles.
At least until you talk.”

“Talk? Talk about what?”

“Until you tell them how you got possessed!”

“I’m not possessed!”

“If you say so but I’ve seen you float.”

I
came downstairs dressed and ready to make a break for it the second cartoons
ended. My heart pounded in my ears so loudly I could barely hear. I was on the
brink of vomiting the entire time and barely touched my Honey Combs.

The
grandmother stopped me just as I hit the front porch.

“You’re not going anywhere. Say goodbye to your friends
and go do something with that hair.”

Wally,
Edward, Sal and Peanut stood on my front porch, looking like pallbearers, white
as sheets, as the grandmother closed the door in their troubled faces.

I
said goodbye to my brother with a rather convicted sentiment. I didn’t know if
I would ever see him again. It was evident that he would make a rapid recovery.
He never even looked away from the television. He’d miss me in a month or two.
Maybe. I’m sure he was relieved by the prospect of a less volatile household. I
couldn’t blame him.

The
grandmother and Fran were already in the car when I got in. I was confused that
none of my things were packed but figured there would be a uniform involved. Special
ordered, no doubt.

We
drove in silence.

I
closed my eyes and prayed. I was notorious for praying only under duress, a
deal maker from day one. They never worked. God didn’t listen to me. I
understood why. He was disappointed in me. We were even. I was disappointed in
Him too.

I
opened my eyes when the car stopped. We were in front of the mall. I was
perplexed. The grandmother hopped out before we came to a complete stop. I
wasn’t even sure if I was supposed to get out until Fran looked over his
shoulder and grimly wished me “good luck.” Good luck? Why did I need luck?

I
struggled to keep the grandmother’s pace. She was quick and clearly on a
mission, a deadly combination, one that required me to be lucky. I had narrowly
escaped complete humiliation during our most recent shopping trip when the
grandmother discovered I could no longer fit into the conveniently paired
Garanimals. I was grateful. I hated the potentially combustible, poly-fiber
attire more than I hated my school uniform. At least with the uniform everyone
looked equally ridiculous. The Garanimals craze was an attempt to get me to
conform on a core level. I was having none of it. As it was, I mixed my monkeys’
with my lions’. It drove the grandmother bat shit.

We
walked for what seemed an eternity. Finally we entered a section of the store I
had never been in before. It was as far from the beaten path as a department
could be while still housed in the same building. I could feel the shame before
its contents offered an explanation.

“You need to start
wearing a bra.”

What?

This
could not be happening. The concept had never occurred to me. I mean, I knew what
they were and I assumed I’d be forced to wear one. Eventually. I couldn’t
imagine that anyone would wear one voluntarily. Maybe the government regulated
them or the church. Probably the church. It certainly could have been based on a
medical need. Some of the women I’d seen obviously had a condition that would
warrant one. Like Lisa’s Aunt Shirley, she could take you out with one boob
from a hundred paces, clear the dinner table with an abrupt grab for the salt,
suffocate the life out of you if you stood under four feet tall. Those kind of
boobs should be monitored, for everyone’s safety.

A
bra was the last thing I needed. Something like this was sure to broaden the
separation between my peers and me, a quickly expanding rift as it was. That,
and it would be discussed in the same way everything was discussed. Loudly.
Publicly. Relentlessly.

I
was due, I suppose. Edward had just gotten special glasses to correct his
wandering eye. We had pretty much milked all of the eye material anyway, even
though Wally and I secretly thought it was kind of cool. We wondered if Edward could
see in two directions simultaneously. We tested him a few times by giving him
the finger in his peripheral vision. Eventually Wally got caught. Edward pinned
him on the ground and dangled spit in his face. They were disgusting.

He
was getting off easy if you ask me. The eye was getting fixed. There was no
fixing the bra issue. I’d much rather sport a magic spy-eye.

Wally would
still be Wally. That was some consolation.

I
waited in the fitting room, horrified, wishing I were somewhere getting an
exorcism, even if it required potentially exploding from holy water. The
grandmother threw back the curtain and handed me what looked like a parachute
without a canopy. I strapped it on with no instruction. I didn’t see the point
of wearing one. I mean, who cared besides the grandmother? I looked at myself
in the mirror. The bra felt tight and cut me in half, like a rubber band on a
burrito. I could barely breathe. I was unaware that adjustments were possible I
just knew they were necessary.

Once I put on a shirt no one would notice.

I
arrived home to find Edward and Wally sitting on the curb waiting. Wally
sprinted to the car the second we pulled in.

“Thank
God you’re home! We found a dead raccoon by the park. Peanut ran over it with
his bike by accident. He’s home throwing up. You missed it.”

“I was trapped with the
grandmother.”

“Did you have an
exorcism?”

“I’m not possessed,
Wall.”

“That’s not what Edward said. Right, Eddie? He said when
you say the rosary you get hives. He’s seen them.”

I smacked Edward.

“What? Sometimes if
I sit behind you in church I swear I can see smoke.”

“See?”

Sarcasm never found its way to Wally.

“I’m not possessed, jackass. Stop listening to Edward. Do
you remember when he told you KISS was staying at Brian Kopeck’s house?”

“Yeah.”

“He told you to peek in the window to see them. What
happened? Did you see KISS?”

“No.”

“What did you see?”

“Old man Kopeck playing
with his weenie.”

“So what does that say
about Edward?”

“That he has no idea what
Gene Simmons looks like?”

“God, you are an idiot.”

“Maybe. So, how come you’re
wearing a back brace?”

In the weeks of bra torture that followed, I had never
seen Edward so full of joy. He broke two bras in the first week.You can only ask so much from fabric,
even the elastic-y kind. My back was covered with welts. Peanut was so deft at
strap snapping that he could do it while we were on our
bikes riding at full speed. He nearly killed us both more than once.

3 comments:

Yep, sitting here trying not to laugh out loud at work! The bra-snapping. I hated that. It was a huge craze in junior high. UGH! Funny you mention Garanimals. My husband and I were just joking about old married couples dressing in pastel Garanimal-looking matching outfits here in Florida. We promised each other that we would NEVER dress like that!